


Under Bloodied Water

by VictoriaAGrey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Case Fic, Love Confessions, M/M, Reunions, Running Away, Season 6 canon divergence, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Soulmates, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 01:00:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10348893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoriaAGrey/pseuds/VictoriaAGrey
Summary: Dean has run away from Sam after his soul being reunited with his body brought with it an unwelcome revelation about their relationship. But just because he's managed to run away from his brother doesn't mean he can also hide from his job.Reports of something singing its victims to death are rocking the seaside town Dean has retreated to and it's up to him alone to take care of the problem... that is, until his brother shows up.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It was such a pleasure working with my artist [winchesterchola](http://winchesterchola.tumblr.com/) \- Tumblr ///[stargazingchola](http://stargazingchola.livejournal.com/) \- LJ for my first Supernatural big bang. I hope you enjoy her art and give it the appropriate love [here on Tumblr](http://winchesterchola.tumblr.com/post/158539362059/title-under-bloodied-water) and [here on LJ](http://stargazingchola.livejournal.com/5797.html). Enjoy! <333

Words are often tricky because they come laden down with meaning. Dictionary definitions are where they start, but never where they end. There is subtext and slang to think of, both being capable of completely changing the intended usage. Take the word “retreat,” for example. Merriam-Webster defines it as “movement away from a place or situation especially because it’s dangerous, unpleasant, etc.” Subtext implies that there’s an enemy. Slang implies that you’re a coward.

Dean is retreating, but he’s no coward and there is no enemy aside from the specters lurking in his mind’s darkest corners.

There’s wind flowing through his hair, Led Zeppelin II blaring through the speakers, and the wheel of a badass car beneath his palms. The picture is perfect until you account for the fact that the winds are actually gusts from the Pacific Ocean, the badass car he is driving is a 1967 Mustang GT500, and Sam is nowhere in sight. Loose threads of ache and misery brushed across his projection of calm and for the moment, he doesn’t really give a shit.

Pulling into the Malibu Beach Inn, he parks in a spot close to the entrance but hidden from the street, a force of habit that comes in use now since the car is stolen, albeit from someone three states over. He reserved a beach front room and paid for the week, inwardly laughing at the credit company’s error in issuing Dresden Devereaux a credit card with a limit of $10,000, $4,000 of which he just dropped. With a wink at the cute receptionist, he took the keycard and found his room.

The room is a palace compared to what he is used to. While the room isn’t spacious, it does have a queen sized bed that faces the ocean, a small living area with a flat screen TV, a fireplace, and a bathroom with a steam shower. Best of all, it’s clean. No mysterious carpet stains, mildewy towels, discolored bedding, or stale odor. It was all Egyptian cotton sheets and salty ocean smell. With a smile on his face, he threw his duffle bag on the couch and walked out onto the balcony.

After taking in the view for a few minutes, he began twirling a cell phone between his fingers, carefully deliberating with himself before keying in a long memorized number.

“Agent Willis speaking.”

“Hey, Bobby.”

“Dean!? You -” Bobby sputtered, anger and relief making it difficult for him to speak. A knot in Dean’s chest unwound at the sound of his familiar voice. “Boy, do you have any idea the trouble you’ve caused?”

Running a finger along the glass railing, he ventured a guess. “A lot?”

“Don’t get cute, son. You have no clue what I went through when I found all your phones burned and gutted. That damn car of yours left behind with the keys and some... And now you call thinkin’ we’re gonna kiss and make up after over a week of nothing!?”

“No,” he replied, letting the weight of his heart sound in his words. “I just – Bobby, I need time.”

“Time to what?”

“Get my head on straight. Wake up without the weight of the world on my fucking shoulders.” Dean watched a seagull fly by, its wings cutting through the setting sun. “I’m really starting to get why Atlas shrugged.”

Bobby paused before he replied, his tone lightening a bit with curiosity. “Since when do you read Ayn Rand?”

“Never. I read the first chapter and it was boring as hell.”

They both chuckled at his admission, the moment tempered with the knowledge that he couldn’t remember the last time they had genuinely laughed for any reason. It was nice, especially considering where he’d been for the last year. His frame of mind...

“Listen, I called because I don’t want you thinkin’ I’m dead. I’m fine. I’m good.”

“It’s not me you should be talkin’ to.”

“Don’t,” Dean interrupted before he could continue. “I can’t deal with – I can’t talk about him right now, okay?”

“He’s driven that car of yours across the country twice lookin’ for you. Probably on his third lap by now.”

“I don’t care.” Dean rolled his eyes at himself because really, wasn’t the opposite the whole problem? Why he was here and not out there looking for The Mother?

“You gonna call him or are you gonna have me do your bidding like a maid, minus the wage?”

“Do whatever you want. Call him. Don’t call him. Send up a smoke signal and hope he sees it. Choice is yours.”

“You’re in way over your head.” Bobby sighed at the end of the line before allowing his voice to soften, as much as the sheer gruffness of it allowed. “You take care of yourself.”

“Yeah. You, too.”

Dean hung up and briefly contemplated chucking the phone into the ocean waves crashing into the sand below him, but something made him keep it. Maybe it was because he wanted to keep the line open for Bobby, or because the phone itself wasn’t traceable since it was a burner that Sam wouldn’t be able to track no matter how hard he tried.

Or maybe it was because a part of him really hoped Sam would find a way to defy what he was told wasn’t possible.

Refusing to analyze his own motives any further, Dean threw it onto the couch and decided that the best way to kill some time and cure his hunger was to visit the in-house restaurant. After changing into a leather jacket he picked up in Washington and a pair of black jeans, he strode down the hall and into the lobby, garnering appreciative looks from nearly everyone he passed. It hurt a bit to realize it only vaguely did anything for him.

“Are you expecting anyone, sir?” asked the California 10 hostess, Pixie, according to her nametag.

“Not unless you plan to join me.”

She giggled at the easy line he’d thrown out countless times and escorted him to a table outside on the balcony. When she left with a lingering glance, Dean gave her his most charming smile before turning to look out across the ocean, his fingers drumming Metallica’s ‘Some Kind of Monster’ into the tabletop. He always felt a sense of calm looking at the ocean, maybe because he never saw it much. Can’t associate it with the things that go bump in the night if you never see it.

His dinner passed quietly. Wanting to eat something familiar, but still wanting to live a little, he got the steak and frites dinner with a bottle of their most expensive red wine, because why the hell not. The combination was better than he expected and he took his time, savoring the taste because his stay here with this food had an expiration date.

When he stood from the table, he noticed Pixie watching him and he made his way over to her.

“Your offer of company,” she started, eyes bright and biting her bottom lip. “Did it only extend to dinner?”

“When do you get off?” Dean always favored the direct approach and loved the way his chosen partner’s face would light up whenever they caught the double entendre. She caught it fast.

“An hour from now.”

“Room 250. Bring a bottle of your favorite champagne. Charge it to my room.”

With that parting shot, he left for his room to take a long overdue shower. The steam shower worked wonders on his strained muscles and he stayed in there for nearly the whole hour, luxuriating in the amenity he never saw on the road but longed for whenever the shower-of-the-week was particularly shitty or the night too hard. He was a hedonist and proud of it, leaning his head back so he could just _feel_ the water sousing his skin. If it wasn’t for the clock on the wall, he was sure he would have stayed in there long past Pixie’s arrival. He had barely gotten his outfit back on when he heard the telling knock at the door.

Opening the door, he immediately noticed her empty hands. “No champagne.”

“No need,” she replied easily, walking into the room and kicking her heels off. “I hardly think we’re under the impression that this is a date.”

Dean chuckled as he closed the door. “I was trying to be a gentleman.”

“The gesture was enough.”

Pixie was gorgeous and Dean decided to enjoy the evening; push aside all the crap that was weighing him down, pretend the world’s next big threat wasn’t looming large, and simply enjoy the company of a beautiful woman. She certainly seemed willing to fulfill the role of escape.

Dean threaded his fingers into her hair and kissed her, her plush lips parting easily for him when he ran his tongue along the seam. Minty toothpaste overpowered her natural flavor, the thought that she had brushed her teeth before coming to pay him a visit amusing him because it meant she kept a toothbrush on her. Her moan pulled him back into the moment and he picked her up, wrapping her legs around his waist and carrying her to the bed.

She painted a pretty picture with her wavy blonde hair spilling across the comforter and her blue eyes sparkling in the dim light that flooded in from the balcony. Her legs were parted and bent at the knees on the bed’s edge, her loose skirt pooling high on her thighs. The white button-up shirt she was wearing had the nametag removed and he could see a small stain along her right cuff, the reddish purple color leading him to believe it was wine. Typical California tan and bleached white teeth. In another time, he might have been foolish enough to try and give her his real name and number.

No such impulse came to him now.

“Make it good.”

The confidence of her voice was a boon to him, making him smirk. “I’ll make it the best.”

Straddling her hips, Dean leaned over her and unbuttoned her blouse slowly, all while keeping eye contact because she seemed to like it. He tossed it aside and her bra along with it, leaving her topless and all the more stunning for it. She had perfectly sized breasts, enough to fill his hands when he cupped them as he started kissing her again. As he nipped along her neck, he flicked his thumbs over her nipples and he felt them stiffen under his touch.

“Oh my god,” she sighed, her tone breathless and her body trembling.

Licking down her chest and stomach, he kept the stimulation mounting as he sucked pink bruises along her hip bones. Only once she started asking for more did he relent, leaving her aching on the bed as he kicked off his boots and stripped himself. She watched him hungrily, pupils expanding as more skin became exposed. Once he was completely naked he took out the condom he’d placed in the bedside drawer.

Holding her hand out, she grinned. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Pretty sure you just stole my line.”

“There was no way for you to say it then.”

“No, but I was planning on asking you what you like. You would’ve told me and that would’ve been my reply.” He placed the packet in her hand, enjoying her playfulness. “Now you just have to be surprised.”

“I like surprises.”

She put the hand holding the condom on his hip and trailed back until she got a good grasp on his ass, fingers kneading and nails sending sparks of electricity up his spine. Her other hand held the base of his cock and she leaned forward, sucking the tip into her mouth. The first glide of her tongue against the ridge had him sighing in relief, his need for touch melting inside him and loosening his control. She took him down nearly to the base before pulling off and sliding the condom on.

He had her lay back down and lift her hips so he could finally remove her skirt and underwear. It had been months since he had been with someone and the familiar thrill of a new conquest had him on his knees and pulling her forward until her ass was on the edge. Dean kissed the inside of her thighs and licked along the space between her thighs and folds. In no time, she was shaking beneath him again and he reveled in how responsive she was.

Pixie gasped when he finally moved his mouth to her clitoris and slid two fingers inside her, the movement of his fingers matching his tongue’s rhythm. She was delightfully wet and he enjoyed her taste, bitter with a muted taste that was almost sweet. It wasn’t long before he could feel the muscles inside her begin to convulse with building release and her breaths becoming more staccato, the fingers pulling on his hair shaking with need.

Dean pulled off and wiped his hand across his mouth. Quickly sliding his cock inside her, he had her wrap her legs around him and he lifted her, wrapping one arm around her and the other grasping her thigh to make it easier to lift her up and down. They quickly found their tempo and with a bite to her bottom lip they both came, her coming with a scream and him with a choked moan.

“I gotta admit. I think you delivered on your promise,” she said after he let her down and she collapsed back on the bed, limbs akimbo.

“I always keep my word,” he called back from the bathroom, tying off the condom and throwing it into the trashcan.

“Is that how you’re so successful? Always keeping your promises?”

He joined her on the bed, resting on his side with his head in his hand. “What makes you think I’m successful?”

“Isn’t this room proof enough?”

“Touché,” he conceded, running through the mill of potential careers he could tell her he had that would afford him the room.

“Did your employer book you here?”

“No, I booked myself. Why do you ask?”

“You’re clearly not from around here then,” Pixie laughed, looking out to the ocean as she twirled a curl of hair between her fingers.

“I’m not. Did something happen recently?”

“Yeah, obviously!” Rolling over and mirroring Dean’s position, she put on a show of making her voice sound mysterious and foreboding. “There’s a serial killer on the loose.”

Dean groaned inwardly and called upon every shred of self-control he had to not roll his eyes and curse at God. It fucking figured that on his break from hunting purgatory’s future residents he would encounter the “real world” problem of a serial killer. He wanted to be angry, but he just felt a sense of disappointment and acceptance of the inevitable.

“Tell me about this serial killer.”

“Well, I only know what’s been on the news for the past few weeks, but so far he’s taken six victims. All from the same strip of beach.”

“And I’m guessing the beach out back is included in that?”

“Yeah, because one of the victims was staying here.”

“Seriously?”

“It was so crazy. I served him dinner that night and then a few hours later I hear this weird singing, a scream, and then someone found him dead!”

The mention of music caught Dean’s attention and he tried to think of a monster that had any mention of singing in its MO. He couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t just some whackjob singing as a way to taunt his victim à la A Clockwork Orange, but something told him that what she was describing was not a serial killer. “Singing? What kind of singing?”

“I don’t really know how to describe it. It was – uh, I don’t know, high pitched but melodic? Loud. Beautiful, but grating somehow.” Sitting up, she shook her head and shrugged like she was embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I’m doing just as bad a job describing it now as I did to the police.”

“No, no, you’re doing fine,” he assured her, sitting up to join her and running a hand down her arm. “Do you remember anything else? Anyone suspicious in the area? Cold spots? Smell of rotten eggs?”

Pixie recoiled and cringed. “Rotten eggs? What the hell are you talking about?”

Dean lamented the fact that Sam wasn’t the one asking the questions. He was the one with the subtle approach that he could never seem to master. “Nothing. Just, anything else? Anything? Big or small or seemingly insignificant that you didn’t report at the time?”

“Nothing that I can think of.” She traced a pattern on her knee before perking up and saying, “Oh, there was one thing. We didn’t have any halibut that night for the special. It’s caught fresh everyday but the fishermen couldn’t catch any.”

“None?”

“Yeah, which is weird because they usually never have a problem.”

Making a note of her observation with no real idea how it would come into play, Dean smiled and kissed her shoulder while he thought of a gentle way to ask her to leave so he could start his research.

“Hmm,” Pixie sighed as she leaned into the kiss. “Don’t tempt me. I have to get up early.”

“And who am I to get between you and making a living?”

“That’s the spirit.”

With a quick kiss on the lips, she got up and started getting dressed, Dean appreciating the sight as much as he did her undressing. A wink over her shoulder and an appreciative once-over and she was gone, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts and his laptop.

It didn’t take long for him to realize he was most likely looking for either a siren or mermaid, the latter being more myth than verified fact. Neither could account for both the singing and mass fleeing of fish and if it was a mermaid, it would be one from ancient lore when they closely resembled (and were often confused with) sirens. A complication to the mermaid theory though was that they couldn’t walk on land, contrary to what Disney led ten year old him to believe. He was missing something - he knew he was - but he couldn’t do anything about it for the meantime. So instead of fretting, he fell asleep in his unbelievably comfy bed, sated and yet somehow still unsatisfied.

_One year, three months, and twelve days after Sam’s jump into Lucifer’s cage, Dean believed he had finally reached his inevitable demise, at the hands of the yellow-eyed demon no less. In his final moment, he had only two thoughts, one being that it might be easier to retrieve Sam while in the afterlife. His second was simply, ‘thank god.’_

_Blinking his eyes open in the rundown cabin, he rapidly spun through his mental rolodex of places he could be. When they were kids, they had frequently stayed in cabins when in Northern states, probably as Dad’s way of trying to give them the illusion of normalcy while they were still young. But none of them fit and as he began to wonder what that meant, his vision cleared and there was Sam, casually sitting on a decrepit cot as if there was nothing extraordinary about the scene before him._

_Dean’s heart nearly beat out of his chest at the sight of his brother, thanking heaven and whatever powered it for giving him Sam back, even if he was just a figment of thought. His calm demeanor and unassuming gaze made Dean think this was heaven’s attempt to give him new memories with his brother, a way to satiate his need to see him even knowing he would live out eternity without ever actually laying a hand on him again. Tears welled in his eyes when Sam’s familiar voice filled the room with a simple, “Hey, Dean.”_

_“So I’m dead? This is heaven?”_

_It didn’t feel like it did last time they died. There was no sense of peace or happiness, no feeling like he was getting what he deserved for living out his life on the good side. It just felt like more of the same. Even the cot he was lying on felt harsh and unwieldy beneath him. And that’s when he, for a split second, believed his heaven was going to serve not as a place to lay his weary head, but as a prison. A place where he would face eternal damnation for letting his brother die._

_Maybe heaven was meant to hurt in the way Earth did because he came unaccompanied by his soulmate, their place in heaven forever incomplete because half of it was to always be missing._

_But then Sam opened his mouth, telling him that old yellow-eyes was a hallucination and then providing a running commentary about how he was real while he did the drill. And when it sank in that Sam was truly in front of him and they were both alive, he walked towards him and pulled him into a hug, the kind that was meant to telegraph how relieved he was about Sam’s resurrection. Dean clung to him so tightly that he failed to notice that Sam was nearly limp in his arms, the hug reciprocated with the barest amount of pressure, which if he thought on it, was everything Sam wasn’t._

_The hug broke with no resistance, Sam’s face nearly impassive when he searched his eyes for answers; answers that left Dean reeling in a state of anguish and anger, heartbreak and relief when he got them._

_And Sam... well, Sam just wanted to talk about hunting._

As Dean flipped through the case files of the six victims, he could discern no link between the victims or an MO which could even feebly clue him into why they were chosen. Four were men and two were women, all from different nationalities. Five were wealthy but one was homeless. The youngest was 23 and the oldest 70, the rest sprinkled in between. They were all in various states of health and in an act of desperation, he checked whether they had the same blood type. Needless to say, that angle gave him jack shit. The only commonality among them was the frozen look of fright etched into the lines of their faces upon death.

“I got the name of the witness, Agent Townshend.”

Glancing up from the medical report in his hand, Dean smiled at Sheriff Tomlinson standing in the doorway of his office. “Awesome. What’s the name?”

“Miller Fillmore.” Tomlinson flipped open his notebook and clinched his jaw. “Lives in New York but is renting a beach house here for the next month or so.”

The sheriff had been so thankful to have an extra set of hands on deck that he all but threw the case at Dean that morning when he walked into his office with an authoritative swagger and a badge affording him jurisdiction. Being in his late thirties, he was young for a sheriff of a place like Malibu and he looked it. His brown eyes didn’t have the jaded edge he often saw in older law enforcement officials and he clearly took pride in his body, unlike some of his colleagues that he'd passed in the hall. He was handsome, almost ridiculously so, and Dean briefly wondered if he had just charmed himself into the position. The thoroughness of his reports though, told another story.

Dean liked him, if for no other reason than because he was the first cop he’d ever met with dreadlocks. Gotta love California.

“You have a run in with him, sheriff?”

Chuckling, he took his seat behind the desk and looked at Dean over his papers. “No. Snowbirds are the worst around here and the ones from New York specifically, let me tell you...”

“Not a fan of the accent?”

“The accent I can handle. The obstructionism is what I have a problem with.”

“Obstructionism?” Dean asked as he set the file aside on the coffee table and leaned back on the couch.

“Most of the people around here are wealthy, right? Which is fine, but getting information is a bitch when you have to navigate through reams of legal red tape being thrown up left and right by lawyers who make more an hour than I make in a week. And in my experience, New Yorkers are the worst. Mouths closed tighter than a clam unless their lawyer says it’s okay to give their obviously well rehearsed answer to the question.”

“And you think Fillmore is going to give us the same dance?”

“He’s a hedge fund manager. I know he will.”

Dean contemplated all the ways the questioning could go wrong with someone who essentially gambled for a living and, as a result, was likely to be good at reading people. Gamblers were always the hardest to manipulate into a state of comfort because they _liked_ danger, liked it enough to make a job of it, and there were few things more dangerous than having Five-0 on your ass. There was also the possibility that Fillmore would read right through Dean’s FBI front and recognize the con for what it was and try to con him in return to see who could best the other. Knowing there was no time to play around and wait for him to slip, Dean figured he needed a distraction of sorts and someone that could also double as the main interviewer, unwilling to encounter the same problem he had with Pixie because of his unsubtle approach.

Sheriff Tomlinson was perfect for the job.

They drove over to Fillmore’s house in a cop car, Dean appreciating that it was the first time he’d been in one without being under arrest or on the verge of it. The drive wasn’t long and when they came to a stop, it was in front of a bungalow. It didn’t look like the kind of house he figured a hedge fund manager would be staying in, but then again, it did butt up to the ocean and the clean lines and abundance of windows spoke to modern architecture. So, not what he figured, but definitely pretentious enough for them to be in the right place.

After knocking on the door and waiting for a minute, the steel front door swung open to reveal a disheveled looking man in his early forties. If the bags under his eyes and drained pallor were anything to read into, he hadn’t slept in days.

“Yes?”

“Miller Fillmore, my name is Sheriff Carter Tomlinson and this,” he said as he gestured to Dean standing just behind his shoulder, “is Agent Pete Townshend of the FBI. May we have a moment of your time?”

“Yeah, sure. Okay.”

Stepping aside to let them in, Dean and Tomlinson followed Fillmore into the living room where the back wall was entirely composed of floor to ceiling window panes looking out over the ocean. It made for a pretty sight but Dean didn’t stop to appreciate it, too preoccupied with Fillmore’s jerky movements and shifty glances. He didn’t look suspicious in the traditional sense, but there was definitely something wrong with him. Dean was now reevaluating what he expected out of this meeting and if he was reading Tomlinson right, so was he.

“Would either of you like anything to drink? Water? Soda? Hell, a beer? I’m no judge.”

“No, thank you, Mr. Fillmore,” Dean said as he took a seat on a white couch, Tomlinson sitting next to him and Fillmore slowly lowering himself into a chair opposite them.

“You’re a difficult man to find.”

“I am?”

“You had your lawyers block your name from inclusion on the witness statement,” Tomlinson pointed out. “I had to file an official inquiry to get it.”

Fillmore waved his hand dismissively. “Those are my lawyers. It’s their job to keep me as low profile as possible. I’m not trying to hide or anything. Why else would I be talking to you?”

“Fair enough. Agent Townshend and I are only here as a follow up. You’re not a suspect or anything.”

“Of course I'm not,” Fillmore snorted, as if the very suggestion was beneath him. “I make a killing on Wall Street, not main street.”

Dean immediately got the impression that if this guy was on level ground and acting like his usual self, he’d probably hate him even more than he already did.

“There were a few gaps in the witness statement you gave to my men following the murder we’d like you to fill in; such as, what drew you out to the beach?”

“I, um, heard something.”

“What did you hear?”

“It was this, god, I don’t know, fucking awful screeching sound,” he replied, scratching at the skin behind his ear like it would get rid of the sound. “Like singing, pitch perfect but too high to be pleasant.”

“Kind of like the movie.”

Both turned to look at Dean incredulously and he held his hands up in surrender.

“So you heard this singing and chose to investigate?”

“Well, yeah. It was just up the shore and it was loud. I was trying to get to sleep and I couldn’t through that racquet.”

“Okay, you heard loud singing, go out to see what it is, and then what happened?”

Fillmore squirmed uncomfortably in his seat and looked out towards the ocean. What little color was left in his face drained and he started scratching his hair agitatedly. If there was one thing Dean had picked up on in all his years of interviewing witnesses, it was the look of someone who had seen something they shouldn’t have.

“You won’t believe me.”

“I promise you that whatever you have to say, I’ve heard stranger.”

“No, you don’t understand!” he shouted as he jumped to his feet and started pacing in front of his chair, arms flying like he could work out all his anxiety with the movement. “It was, jesus fuck, I swear I saw a fucking ghost of – of something.”

Dean felt his eyebrows furrow in confusion. He saw a ghost of some _thing_? That was certainly a new one. He instinctively turned to share a look with Sam and felt a punch to his gut to only be faced with Sheriff Tomlinson.

“A ghost of what?”

“I don’t know, man, that’s what I’m trying to tell you! I don’t know what it was. It was just – ugly and terrifying and fucking see through until it killed the lady.”

“So it became corporeal when it killed Mrs. Whitehouse?”

Fillmore rounded on him looking scared and confused. “What!?”

“It, uh, became solid when it killed her?” Dean recovered with.

“Yeah, I guess. I couldn’t see through her anymore.”

“Her?” Tomlinson asked with a shocked tone. “It was a woman?”

“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. It had long hair and -” Fillmore did a sweeping gesture of his person. “- you know, female parts from what I could see.”

“Sir, please, in as vivid detail as possible, describe what she looked like.”

“Her skin looked waxy and she was a greenish blue color with long black hair that seemed to, like, float around her face. And she was floating, all of her. Just, floating there. And she had this tail, like a mermaid. Gills on her neck and webbed fingers. And she was pretty from what I could see but then -” Fillmore cut himself off and ran his hands over his face in frustration. His pacing stopped and he seemed stuck between wanting to talk and running for the hills whenever he glanced their way. “- then her mouth dropped open, like she dislocated her jaw or something, and she screamed in that weird tone she was singing in. Her whole face changed into something ugly and unreal. She reached out with her hands and her fingers looked like talons and she touched that woman’s chest and screamed at her. That’s when she looked solid. After that the lady dropped dead and then it was like that thing was made of water because she fell too, but she became a puddle of water in the sand.”

Dean and Tomlinson vacantly stared at Fillmore, Dean because he was trying to process what the hell Fillmore had seen and Tomlinson in blatant disbelief. He believed Fillmore, there was no faking that level of weirdness and he wasn’t the type to create such a fantastical story, but he had no idea what the creature was or how to kill it. He’d never heard of anything even remotely like what he described.

“Mr. Fillmore, I mean no disrespect, but had you been drinking that night? Or doing drugs?”

Fillmore laughed loudly and mirthlessly. “Do you really think that if I had been, I would feel at all inclined to talk to you right now? Shit, I wish I’d been high as a fucking kite! I didn’t even take a fucking Ambien.”

“One more question, then Agent Townshend and I will be on our way. Did you know the victim?”

“Whitehouse? Fuck no. I had no use for her or her, how do I say this delicately, services?”

That made Dean’s ears perk up. “Services?”

“You don’t know?” he asked skeptically. “She was a madam.”

“She’s not on record as being suspected of prostitution.”

“Of course she’s not, you moron! All her clients are politicians and people with enough money to keep the system quiet. Her girls are the best, or so I’ve heard.”

Not taking kindly to being called a moron, Dean decided to needle him a bit. “Sure you don’t know firsthand?”

“Let’s just say those under her employ didn’t have the right parts for my proclivities,” he said with an eye roll.

Conceding the point, Dean wondered if that nugget of information about Mrs. Whitehouse would help somehow. It wasn’t in her file and was hidden well enough that there wasn’t so much as an asterisk next to her name. As far as secrets came, it was a big one and sometimes the things he hunted thrived on those secrets.

Tomlinson tapped the side of his thigh to get his attention. “You ready to go? We have that other witness to speak to.”

The other witness didn’t claim to see anything, but they did say they heard something. Dean was pretty sure he already knew what they were going to say.

“Of course,” Dean said and stood to shake hands with Fillmore, the guy looking like he was simultaneously thrilled they were leaving but upset to be left alone. “Thank you for your time, but you know how it is. Places to go, people to see.”

_“I went to them because you asked me to!”_

_Out of all the obvious and awful and asshole things he’d ever said, that had to top the list. Dean didn’t even realize he said it until he started yelling at Bobby again, loud enough to show how angry he was but not enough so for his voice to carry upstairs to be overheard, and it hurt how true those words were. If Sam hadn’t made him swear to go to them, he would have eaten a bullet and called it a life. But he’d made him a promise and if there was one thing he did everything in his power not to do, it was disappoint Sam. So he buried his suicidal thoughts and went to Lisa and Ben, drowning himself in domesticity that itched and scratched at his insides the longer it lasted. His only solace was found at the bottom of a bottle or reading a book that could hold the secrets to busting Sam out of the cage._

_Sam, real Sam, would have called him on his shit and told him that was a terrible thing to say, reminded him that Lisa was a great woman who deserved more than some shitty brush-off. That he should acknowledge what she had done for him instead of saying she meant nothing more than the fulfillment of a promise to a dead man. But he didn’t and Dean didn’t care, too buried in betrayal and righteous fury to examine what Sam’s lapse in moral policing meant._

_Only as time passed and he moved past the initial shock of Sam being back did he start to notice all the differences in this Sam from the one he loved. He was cold and withdrawn, cutting with witnesses he wasn’t actively trying to fuck, and while he could readily recall various events from their life perfectly, he did so without warmth in his eyes or familiarity in his voice. It killed Dean to see what had become of his brother in Lucifer’s cage and like the good brother he was, he forgave him for his differences and understood that what he had become was necessary for his survival. That, in effect, Dean could deal with Sam acting like him, even though being in his presence made his skin crawl. Maybe that’s what Sam had felt looking at him sometimes... He hoped not. If for no other person, he at least tried to be warm towards Sam._

_And then the incident with the vampire happened and Dean’s world came crashing down. He knew that, no matter how twisted and warped Sam became in the cage, he would never allow what had happened to Dean to occur, with a smile on his face to boot. There was something wrong, horribly, terribly wrong with Sam and Dean didn’t know where to begin with finding the answer. It wasn’t long before Veritas gave it to him, the one Castiel confirmed by reaching into Sam and finding nothing._

_That moment of revelation made the final piece fall into place in a puzzle he didn’t know he was solving. It explained everything. Why there was a constant itch at the back of his mind during the years Sam was away at college. Why it felt like he could barely breathe in the days after Sam died from a knife through his spine. Why the thought of his impending death after making the deal was a secret, shameful comfort because he knew he would never have to face the day Sam died for good._

_Why, when Sam came crashing back into his life, a part of him was still screaming in agony._

_Hunting had always been his go-to distraction from anything even remotely emotional and he did it in spades once Sam returned. It didn’t look it, tentative and hesitant at a distance, but he clung to it with both hands. He wanted to want to stay behind, protect Lisa and Ben from any harm that could be lurking in the shadows for the opportune moment to strike, but his heart rebelled at the very idea; curved and shrunk away from it. He had to watch after Sam, it was his life’s purpose, always had been, and turning away from it was unthinkable. So they hunted, an efficient unit, until his world came crashing down at his feet._

“Are you fucking serious?”

Pixie whispered, her skepticism evident in her cutting tone. They had circled back to the same question roughly five or six times now. She was too shocked to form a more coherent sentence and try as he might, he had no real patience for people who seemed to question not only what he was asking, but his very sanity. He was perfectly sane, it was the world that was off its fucking rocker.

“Just answer the question.”

“Oh, sure. While I’m at it, do you want me to dial up my grandmother on the Ouija board? I’m sure she would have a thing or two to add.”

“Do you talk to her regularly?”

Her blank stare was burning holes into the back of his skull.

“Listen, just answer the question and I’ll be on my way.”

“I thought you were some hotshot businessman or a model or something and now you’re asking me if I’ve seen mermaids or some shit? What the hell are you?”

Dean pulled out his badge and held it up for her to see. “Special Agent Pete Townshend, FBI.”

“Since when does the FBI put their agents in luxury hotels?”

“Since when were FBI agents questioned by witnesses?”

“Since the FBI questioned witnesses about mermaids!”

Rubbing his forehead in irritation, Dean put away his ID and leaned against the glass railing. This, right here, is the problem with not having Sam with him on a case. When it came time to ask the absurd questions, the ones that would raise anyone’s eyebrows who wasn’t in the know, Sam had a way of lulling them into answering it. His voice would drop an octave, his expression would soften until only understanding shined through his eyes. The more Dean thought about it, the more irritated he got, which did not bode well for Pixie.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s a weird question to ask, but I need to know if you’ve ever seen anything strange in the ocean.”

“No, I’ve never seen anything strange,” she said. Snapping her fingers, she pointed at him with a shocked face. “Oh, wait! There was that kraken last month! Does that count?”

Dean felt his face scrunch in agitation before he could stop it and that’s when Pixie’s icy wall fell. Her giggles soon turned into laughter and Dean joined her, readily falling into a state of amusement he was more familiar with.

“This is so weird. I expected to maybe see you in passing a few times before you left, not get questioned about mythical sea creatures.”

“In all fairness, I never planned on bringing you into this.”

Brushing a lock of hair back, she smiled at him. “And what is ‘this’ exactly? Are The X Files real or something?”

“Not exactly. I’m -”

He was saved from continuing his thought by a loud, melodic sound that could be vaguely construed as singing. It was as it had been described, perfectly in tune but of such a high pitch that it was grating. Pixie’s face fell and after a moment of staring in shock at each other, they both bolted for the door off of the balcony leading into the lobby. Dean was running at full tilt, wanting to get to the beach in time to find the creature and hopefully stop it with a silver bullet he wasn't sure would actually work, and he was surprised to see Pixie keeping up with him even though she was in heels. His respect for her soared ever higher at the determined look on her face.

Running around the side of the building, Dean pulled his gun out and flicked the safety off. He could hear the singing over the sounds of the ocean and he hoped that meant he would make it in time to save whoever was in the creature’s grasp. The sand slowed him down, flying behind him as his feet dug in for traction. Pixie gained ground on him since she kicked her heels off and when she froze a few feet ahead of him, he stopped at her side.

Not thirty yards ahead of them, the ghostly apparition of a mermaid type figure floated before a man who was frozen in fear. She was singing to him, drifting closer as the pitch of her tone reached new heights. He watched as her hand reached for his chest and once she touched him, the victim screamed and she became solid. Aiming for her head, Dean pulled the trigger, the only effect being that her attention became focused on him as she screamed loud enough to cripple him and Pixie. He clapped his hands over his ears and dropped the gun to better shut out the singing. Seconds passed in excruciating pain until it abruptly stop, Dean looking up to see the creature gone and the man a heap in the oncoming tide.

“Shit,” Pixie said, running her hands over her ears as if they still hurt. “Is he dead?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he’s gone,” Dean replied somberly, the failure settling into his chest. “Are you okay?”

“Please, could you just, could you go check on him, please?”

Dean got up from his crouch and brushed the sand from his suit pants, stumbling towards the man and not needing to close the distance to see that he had the same petrified face as the other victims. The puddle that would have been at his feet had been washed away, all traces of the encounter gone aside from the very dead body at his feet. He pulled out his cell and made a call to the department, ending it quickly so he could tend to Pixie who was staring vacantly at the ocean.

“You okay?”

“You weren’t – they – these things are real? Things like that are real?”

“Yes.”

“So I really could contact my grandmother in the great beyond?”

Dean laughed and she joined him, somewhat hollow with shock but amused nonetheless.

“Technically, but you would need a powerful psychic and those are pretty rare.”

She shook her head with a smile, bewildered but at least she wasn’t panicking and Dean considered that a win. He stood at her side by the water until he heard sirens in the distance. Guiding Pixie towards the porch of the hotel, he continued to comfort her and told her to wait so they could take her witness statement. By the time he was done talking to her, Tomlinson was walking onto the beach with his men.

“Agent Townshend, are you alright?” he called over to him.

“I -”

A reply was on the tip of his tongue, ready to convince Tomlinson that he was fine, but he faltered when a familiar silhouette came out from the shadows of the hotel, moonlight casting him in a silvery glow. Wind was flowing through his hair and his long coat was billowing behind him. There was a split second where he watched him unobserved, but as if he sensed eyes on him, he turned his head to the side and for the first time in over a week, their eyes locked.

Even as a part of him mourned being found before he was ready, another part of Dean settled.

_Beautiful and whole, Sam was back after having somehow survived the agony of his soul being shoved back into his body. Standing in Bobby’s living room, he looked so young and vulnerable that it took standing up to remind Dean that he was looking at a 6’4” man who was one of the most lethal hunters in the world, not his five year old baby brother following him around wanting to be held because he had another nightmare._

_Dean was too shocked to do more than hug him back._

_Sam was hugging him like his life depended on it, his arms wound around him so tightly that Dean could barely breathe. In turn, Dean held him so lightly it’s possible Sam barely felt his arms around him, a whisper of the hug he probably expected and Dean thought he’d give. It seemed that while his brain registered that Sam was a grown man, the rest of him didn’t. He held him like he did all those years ago, soothing and gentle, so scared of breaking what he thought of as fragile._

_As he watched Sam walk to Bobby and be pulled into his hesitant arms, he felt the aching, screaming part of him settle into a cool stream. It flowed through him in waves, calming his frayed nerves, his soul finally content._

_It hit him in a crush of feeling that nearly made him collapse then and there. Sam was his soulmate. Not in some dry, rom-com way, but in a “when you’re here I’m alive and when you’re not I’d rather be dead” sort of way. How he saw all the signs and missed the big answer for so long killed him, burning inside him like acid, making him wonder how someone so dim could function. He was suicidal when Sam was dead, not because he felt like a failure, but because his soul was desperate to be reunited with its companion. It ached for him. It needed him. He wanted him._

_Dean had never run from anything faster in his life._

“Agent Townshend?”

Looking back at Tomlinson, Dean plastered on his best reassuring face, even knowing Sam would see right through it.

“I’m good,” he said, and then glibly added, “Well, as good as you can get after catching a glimpse of the bastard child of Samara and Ariel.”

Tomlinson looked shocked. “You saw it?”

“Her, and yes. She’s real. I mean, come on, ghost mermaids coming out of the ocean? Patrick Bateman back there was hardly a reliable witness.”

Nodding as he chuckled, Tomlinson looked out at the ocean. “Yeah, can’t say I believed him. What would be next if I did? Vampires and werewolves?”

Dean laughed along with him, but before he could formulate a reply, Sam called over from where he was kneeling next to the body. “Sheriff Tomlinson.”

Tomlinson walked over to the body and Dean followed. When Sam looked up, he looked at him first before turning to Tomlinson.

“We need to get the body out of here as soon as possible. It’s an exposed area and people are too curious for their own good.”

“Yes, of course,” Tomlinson agreed, turning to Dean and gesturing to Sam. “By the way, this is Agent Daltrey. Agent Daltrey, this is Agent Townshend; he’s been our liaison for the last day or so with the case. I’m assuming you’ve met before?”

Sam’s mouth quirked at the corner, his amusement peaking out before he shut it down. “We’ve had a run in or two.”

“Good. Does that mean we can count on both of you to help solve this case?”

“Oh, that shouldn’t be a problem. We’re the best at what we do. But first, would you mind if we had a word in private?”

Tomlinson dismissed them and Dean led the way into the hotel, bypassing the station the cops were setting up and heading straight for his room. Once they were inside, Dean looked at Sam, really looked at him at for the first time in over a week. He was a little pale at the edges and clearly hadn’t been eating. Dean briefly contemplated shoving a sandwich down his throat before they talked.

“So.”

“So,” Sam echoed, his expression hardening. “That was one hell of a note you left behind.”

He pulled the crumpled up note out from inside his coat and tossed it on the bed. The words blurred for how small they were on the college rule paper, but he knew the words by heart: _I can’t do this. I’m sorry, Sam. Forgive me._

“Do you have any idea how that read to me when I first saw it?”

“Sam -”

“No, don’t try to cook up some bullshit excuse. You were -”

“I wasn’t going to kill myself!”

“You thought about it!” Sam yelled back, his anger boiling to the surface. “You get me back and – what? – think ‘okay now’s a good time to go?’ You would do that to me?”

“THAT’S WHY I DIDN’T DO IT, SAM!” Dean shouted, collapsing onto the couch with all of his anger burned out in one exclamation. “I’m not – I swear to you I’m not suicidal, I’m not. I just – too much happened too fast, Sam, and I couldn’t deal with it. I didn’t want to deal with it.”

“I’m sorry -”

Dean put his hands up to stop Sam. “I’m not asking you to apologize. You didn’t do it on purpose. It wasn’t, you know, you.”

Sam sat next to him on the couch, the proximity familiar and yet new somehow. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.” Sitting back, Dean side-eyed his brother. “How did you find me anyway?”

“Bobby called and told me that you called him. Said he heard the ocean in the background. I figured you got as far away from me as possible without leaving the country, because god forbid you ever willingly get on a plane unless you have to, which meant you were on the west coast. You think California holds too many memories for me so there would be a possibility I wouldn’t come after you. Once I figured out the state, I looked to see if there was a case because, even though you wanted to get away from me, you would never sit out on a case if you knew one existed.

“Also, you like the ocean. You don’t associate it with our job so if you wanted to escape everything, you’d get an ocean view, which,” Sam gestured toward the balcony, “look at that. Literal ocean view.”

“Hey, Dresden Devereaux paid a lot for that view.”

Sam laughed and relaxed in his seat, putting his feet on the coffee table. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a small plastic baggie with something that was small and triangle-shaped inside. Taking the bag, Dean turned it between his fingers. “What the hell is this?”

“While you were chatting with the sheriff, I was actually working. Found that beside the body.”

“Is it a scale from whatever that thing is?”

“That’s my best bet.” Sam pulled out his cell and dialed Bobby, putting it on speaker. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Hopefully Bobby has.”

“He’s gonna kill you for calling if he was asleep.”

“When does he ever -”

“Boy, you better have a good reason for waking me up,” Bobby’s voice cracked through the din.

Dean turned his shit-eating grin on Sam, who rolled his eyes. “Hey, Bobby.”

It sounded like Bobby dropped his phone. “Dean, is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“When did you find him, Sam?”

“I found him about an hour ago,” Sam responded, leaning forward to take a picture of the scale as he spoke. “And what do you know, he was on a case.”

“I’m shocked,” he said with palpable exasperation. “What are you on to, Dean?”

“Ghost mermaid.”

Sam smacked his arm. “I’m sending you a pic of a scale I found at the latest crime scene.”

After Bobby received the pic, he put them on hold while he went to go get one of his books to confirm his suspicion. They sat there silently, Sam resting his head against the back of the couch while Dean took in his profile. He always liked these moments with Sam because they were rare, when he just laid back and relaxed, nothing troubling him. There was so much to talk about, Dean knew that, but right now, all he wanted was this little respite with his brother before he had to lay all his cards on the table.

“An adaro.”

Sam’s eyes flew open and he sat up immediately. “There’s no way -”

“I’m looking at the picture of the scale right now against one taken in 1902. It’s an adaro.”

“But they’re all dead or around the Soloman Islands.”

“You know as well as I do that monsters are poppin’ up in places they shouldn’t be lately. That scale and Dean’s stupid, albeit accurate, description of ‘ghost mermaid’ fits an adaro to the letter.”

“Alright, what is it exactly?”

“It’s a malevolent water spirit that seeks out those with wickedness in their hearts. She lures in her prey by singing to them and then kills them by singing at a pitch which interferes with the body's electrical impulses. She also has to touch them for it to work.”

“How do we kill it?”

“Trident to the heart when she becomes corporeal.”

“Okay, thanks, Bobby.”

“You’re welcome,” he said and before they hung up, added, “And Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“You pull that shit again and I’ll lock you in the panic room for a week.”

Hearing the truth in his words, Dean swallowed and nodded even though he knew Bobby couldn’t see him. “Yes, sir,” he said just before Bobby disconnected the call.

Leaning back again, Dean loudly exhaled and turned to Sam. “She has to be corporeal for us to make her into sushi.”

“Which means she has to actively be killing her victim for us to get her.”

“How the hell are we supposed to do that? She doesn’t have a set MO and we have no way of knowing when she’ll strike.”

Sam looked grim as he shook his head. “That’s not exactly true.”

“What do you mean?”

“We have to go somewhere,” Sam announced as he stood up abruptly, holding out his hand to help Dean up. Dean took it. “I’m going to go make our excuses to Sheriff Tomlinson. While I’m doing that, go knick the old fisherman’s trident from the lobby display. Should be easy enough to do in the chaos.”

And with that, Sam walked out of the room with a determined stride and Dean followed him out. He kept trying to wrack his brain for where they could be going as he navigated the groups of cops milling about the hotel. Snatching the trident was shamefully easy to do with all of them distracted by the murder and once he was outside, he was making his way over to the Mustang when he saw the great love of his life.

Baby was sitting pretty in the lights of the hotel, all clean and ready for him to take her for a ride. Sam was leaning against her with an amused look on his face.

“You two want a minute?”

Dean ignored him and ran a loving hand over her hood. “You miss me as much as I missed you? It’s been ages.”

“It’s been a week.”

Grabbing the keys out of Sam’s outstretched hand, Dean gave him a scathing look. “Don’t ruin my moment, Sam.”

Taking his seat behind the wheel, Dean threw the trident in the backseat and started Baby, reveling in the purr of her engine and having Sam in the passenger seat. It was the first time he felt right since he left Bobby’s. Pulling onto the road, he smiled at Sam and the expanse of road before him.

“Where are we going?”

“Just a few miles up the road. Topanga Beach.”

The name sounded familiar to Dean. “Isn’t that where Scott Laws died?”

Sam opened a case file in his lap and nodded. “Yup. Med school student on leave to see his parents.”

“Why are we going there?”

“Because we’re going to draw out the adaro and it’s the one beach we have uninterrupted access to right now.”

“That’s your plan? Using us as bait?”

“No,” Sam said, and Dean knew him well enough to hear the hesitation in his voice. “Using me as bait.”

Dean pulled over the car and parked on a curb overlooking the ocean. “No, absolutely not.”

“Listen to me -”

“No! I’m not let you do this when the only way to kill this fucking thing is to strike just before she kills.”

“You have to. And let me finish before you interrupt me,” he insisted, lifting the file to read. “I dug into Scott Laws’ background when I found the case you were working. There was an accusation of sexual assault in his file from university that got buried before he applied to med school. It never went anywhere but I did find a multi-million dollar donation from his parents to the school around the time he graduated. They used it to renovate the medical wing of the school.”

Dean scoffed in disgust. “Bought off?”

“Obviously. Gloria Chandler was the wife of a big time Hollywood producer. Appears nice enough until you find out that her previous husband died under mysterious circumstances.” Sam flipped the page in his folder. “The homeless guy is actually a man named Oscar Vakhno. He’s a suspected serial killer from the Ukraine that went missing just over six months ago.” Another flip of the pages. “Albert Church. Suspected of using his shipping company as a front for a money laundering scheme and human trafficking.” Flip to the back pages. “And the crown prince of these scumbags. William Baudelaire. CEO of a chemical disposal company that is under investigation by the FBI for selling uranium to terrorists.” Sam shut the folder and stared at Dean with an imploring look. “I don’t know what this last victim did or what Lila Whitehouse did, but I’m pretty sure they weren’t treasures of society either.”

“She was a madam.”

Sam looked surprised. “Whitehouse? Really? I couldn’t find anything on her.”

“Of course you couldn’t. I went to talk to the witness, Miller Fillmore, and he confirmed that she was a madam. Apparently all of her customers are either politicians or wealthy dickheads with no skill.”

“Protected from suspicion by the government.”

“Yeah.” They sat in silence for a moment, Dean processing all the information. When he made the final connection, he forcibly kept himself from launching across the car at Sam. “Really, Sam!? Really? You’re putting yourself in league with a fucking terrorist and a rapist!?”

He cast his eyes down. “There’s wickedness in me, Dean. You know it.”

“In what universe does having demon blood in you mean you’re as bad as serial killers and human traffickers and – Jesus, Sam! Really? You saved the world! You’re not a bad person!”

“I am literally the Devil’s vessel, Dean,” he retorted quietly. “You don’t get worse than that.”

“You know what? When this case is over, we’re gonna have a talk about you and your self-esteem issues.”

Dean turned away from him and started Baby, turning back onto the road and heading for Topanga Beach.

“If you don’t think I’m a bad person, why are we still going to the beach?”

“Just because your reasons were shit doesn’t mean it’s the wrong plan,” Dean bit at him with as much venom as he could. “If it comes, she could be coming for either of us.”

Sam threw a hand up in evident irritation. “Wow. Sounds like we need to have a talk about your self-esteem issues, too.”

“Sam, shut your mouth.” Dean pulled into the parking lot of the beach and parked, turning off the car and getting Sam’s attention. “She would come for either of us because we could both be classified as serial killers. It’s what we do. Yes, we kill monsters and we do it to protect people, but the fact remains that most of them were, at one time, human. And we like our job. We don’t thrill in the kill, but it’s what we do.”

Dean climbed out of the car and walked onto the deserted beach, enjoying the feel of isolation. More often than not, he only got this feeling when he was driving and there was nothing but fields and mountains for miles around. Here, he only had the glittering ocean and Sam at his side. It was as close to paradise as he’d ever come to.

Both sat in the sand, Sam laying the trident between them. There was no sound aside from the ocean waves and the occasional shuffling of legs. They didn’t speak, the comfortable silence doing more for them than words could. They had long perfected the art of silent companionship and its return, something he hadn’t truly had with Sam in over a year, was a welcome reprieve from the commotion of the world constantly moving around them. It was moments like this that haunted Dean when he thought Sam was dead, that he would never again know what it was like to live in suspended silence that spoke volumes.

Lulled into comfort, it took Dean longer than it should have to register the sight of the adaro rising from the ocean, looking beautiful and decidedly human, her melodic voice echoing in his head. The tone was completely different when compared to what he heard earlier; where it was grating before it was now seductive, the nuances of it dancing through him like a flower caught in a breeze. It made him recall chasing after Sam through a field of wheat when they were kids.

Then there was the county fair, Sam running ahead with their cotton candy and Dean shoving his way through the crowds to keep up. Laser tag when they were teenagers. A pair of werewolves hot on their path, Sam just ahead of him and reaching back for his hand, Dean slipping his hand into his. Running through Purgatory, not knowing whether Sam had survived Roman’s death, needing to get back to find out.

Always, always running after him. Trying to keep up. Trying to stay in his orbit, unwilling to leave it.

A silky hand was reaching for his chest and he let it, lying pliant in the cold sand. Music all around him and in him. He could feel it, the desire to sink into its melody for all –

A shrill scream shattered the singing and a great fireball appeared above him before disappearing in a puff of smoke, leaving behind only his brother with a trident inches above his chest.

“Holy shit,” he said breathlessly, the spell of the adaro broken. “Was that - ?”

Sam threw the trident into the ocean and helped him up, his legs shaky. “Yeah. You looked gone, man. I got her as soon as I could.”

“Did you hear her?”

“Sorta. I can’t really explain it.” Sam led him back to Baby and got into the driver’s seat, Dean accepting that he probably wasn’t ready to drive just yet. “I could hear her, but it was like she decided to fixate on you first. I could still hear her when I killed her.”

“She looked and sounded different.”

“It’s the spell, I think. Maybe that’s what she looked like when she was alive.”

“Too bad she ended up looking the way she did,” he said, thinking about what he remembered. “She was a babe in real life.”

Sam cast him a cutting glance before looking back to the road. When they pulled up to the hotel, all of the cop cars served as a reminder that they were still working under the assumption that a serial killer was on the loose. Dean contemplated leaving a note or something behind for Tomlinson explaining that everything had been taken care of, making it sound like it was the government that swept in and took care of it quietly. He was a nice guy; he didn’t deserve to have something this big left unsolved on his record.

They managed to avoid the bustle of police in the lobby and make their way back to Dean’s room. Dean took off his coat and stood awkwardly by the door, hesitant to have the conversation he knew they needed to have, but he decided to push aside his fears and start it before it was left forever untouched.

“We’re soulmates.”

Sam threw off his coat and turned to face him, his expression not even remotely surprised. “I know.”

“How?”

“I know you think that your life revolves around mine, but I always saw it the other way around. I wanted to be like you so badly when I was little. I followed you around, tried to talk like you, walk like you. Most kids grow up wanting to be like their dad; I wanted to be like you.” Sam ran a hand through his hair, knots in it pulling at his fingers. “When Zachariah said you were Michael’s vessel, a part of me knew then that I was Lucifer’s. Different sides of the same coin. We were meant to be born, together, and that’s the way we’re meant to live this life. When Ash said soulmates share a heaven, everything we were seeing, our whole lives suddenly made sense.”

“And that didn’t scare you? That I’m your other half?”

“You don’t scare me, Dean. You never have.” Sam took a deep breath and looked at Dean, something flashing through his eyes before he could catch it. “And what you said back there, that I saved the world... that’s not the whole truth.”

Dean gave him a confused look. “What are you talking about? Of course you did, I was there. I saw it.”

“Yes! Exactly!” Sam exclaimed, closing some of the distance between them. “You were there. Remember how you told me that when you went to the future, it had fallen because I said yes? It wasn’t because we didn’t talk all those months, it was because you weren’t there. Because that Dean wasn’t with his Sam, the world fell.” He ran his hands over his face, holding them there for a second before talking again. “If you hadn’t shown up, there would be nothing left. This world would not exist. It was because Lucifer was killing you that I was able to take back control.” Sam laughed breathlessly, like he was working up the nerve to continue. “Our life flashed before my eyes in that moment. Everything, all of it. You see, it wasn’t me that saved the world, it was my love for you that did. My love for you saved the world.”

Dean stared speechlessly at his brother, shocked, awed, and humbled in a way that swept deep through him. He always thought his devotion was one-sided, making him feel dirty for constantly seeking his company. But here Sam was, telling him that he loved him so much he overpowered the most powerful possessing force in the universe to save his life. Sam knew what he felt for him because he felt it too, felt it for Dean. There was no greater feeling in the world and it made his insides burn incandescently, settling into a smoldering flame.

“That’s what I saw. With the adaro. She showed me our life, how I was always chasing after you. That I would forsake this whole goddamn planet for you.”

Sam reached for him then, his hand cupping his face as he smiled. “Then the world better pray you never get the opportunity to prove that.”

There was a moment where Dean contemplated if he was reading Sam wrong, that he wasn’t about to do what he thought he was. But the moment passed quickly, Sam leaning in and kissing him tenderly, softly enough that it was as if his lips merely ghosted across his. Dean pressed his lips to his, returning the pressure and enjoying the feeling of having to lean his head back for once to kiss someone.

It felt right, their lips locking on a promise to burn the world down just to relive the feeling.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for your kudos, comments, critiques, angry banshee screams, or whatever you leave for me here or at my Tumblr ***[mycroft-silently-judges-you](http://mycroft-silently-judges-you.tumblr.com)***


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